


Honeytrap

by glitterburn (orphan_account)



Category: Super Junior-M
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Drugs, Emotion Play, Face Slapping, M/M, Pictures, Roleplay, Scars, Vehicular Sex, Voyeurism, mechanical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-11
Updated: 2012-05-11
Packaged: 2017-11-05 04:15:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/402333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/glitterburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His job was to watch, not to get involved. Now it’s too late for them both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honeytrap

_Now_

Siwon can’t move.

He’s lying on his bed almost fully dressed, cock hard and straining at his trousers. Confusion fogs his mind. His gun is on the bedside table, but he can’t reach it. He’s tried. With effort he can twitch his fingers, but to do so takes all of his focus and that’s in short supply right now. He can barely hold a coherent thought in his head, memories and imaginings and realities drifting and merging and leading him along other paths. 

Concentrate. Don’t panic. 

His voice grates in his throat. He can make small noises but he can’t form words. He’s aware of his pulse, the rapid _thud thud thud_ of his heart as he moves his head on the pillow and tries to wiggle his feet. Whatever drug he was given is temporary, he’s certain of it. Siwon tries to recall the names of all toxins fatal or otherwise that cause localised paralysis. He manages to list four before he forgets what he’s doing. Clouds obscure his thoughts. Perhaps it’s not one drug but a cocktail, a bouquet of complementary chemicals. That would explain his involuntary erection and the continual rolling hum of lust that swims through his veins. 

Someone wanted him off-balance and helpless, but they failed in their intent. He’s safe. He made it home. And if he keeps trying to move, if he keeps trying to think, at one point the drugs will wear off.

He lies at an angle across the mattress. One foot is dangling from the side of the bed. It’d be uncomfortable if he could feel it properly. Siwon’s mind latches onto that thought and circles for long moments until he blinks, pulling himself out of the slowness of his mind. Panic rises again; he pushes it back, concentrates on his surroundings.

His watch ticks. The sound seems loud, seems to fill the room. Outside, a car passes along the street, its headlights a splash of brightness across the ceiling and the wall. It’s raining, the slow drizzle of winter sliding down the window. The world is grey. Elsewhere in Beyoğlu the streets will be brilliant with light and noise, but in this corner of Tarlabaşı everything is tamped down and repressed.

His thoughts are wandering again. Concentrate.

Siwon stares at the light fixture in the ceiling, at the spider-web cracks reaching outwards, a legacy of the last earthquake. Before the drugs took effect, he’d been in the process of unbuttoning his shirt. He can smell his skin, the familiar scent of sweat and cologne mixed with the thick-sweet taint of tobacco and soap. 

Soap, yes, that’s it—he’d gone to the hamam in Çukurcuma earlier this evening. He’d wanted to relax, hoped maybe to find a companion for an hour or so, someone to take the edge off his desire and reveal it for nothing more than stupid infatuation. But the place was almost empty. 

Siwon drags at the memory, unravels it like silk. Yes, yes: the hot room had no one in it except him and the masseur. He remembers the sound of running water, the drape of the steam, the blaze of the heated marble block against his skin. Winking glass elephant eyes in the concrete dome, the dizziness of the half light. The practiced touch of the masseur drawing an easy arousal and a swift, unsatisfactory climax. Afterwards, he’d returned to his cubicle to rest and the attendant had brought him apple tea and rakı. He never touched alcohol in the hamam, but he’d drunk the apple tea, sickly sweet and the colour of rust.

The drugs must have been in there.

Careless. He should know better. He was trained to know better. But this city makes you forget. It makes you forget everything.

The watch ticks. The sound anchors him. Leads him inwards. Downwards.

Siwon jerks awake. Concentrate. Think rationally. Who would want to do this to him? Put aside the idea of a casual attempt; this wasn’t indiscriminate. It was deliberate. He turns his head again, stares at the familiar snub-nosed shape of his gun. A CZ-75B, standard issue for the Turkish police force. Its serial numbers are filed off. Like him, it’s a deniable asset.

He has enemies in İstanbul, but none that would want to drug him like this. It’s not their style. They’d choose something more immediate. Something messier. This method suggests patience and forward planning.

Siwon closes his eyes. He knows who did this. He knows, and it scares him and arouses him at the same time.

Desire moves in him, cutting through his sluggishness like meltwater. His breathing quickens. He curls his fingers, the distance between the bed and his gun marginal yet vast.

His watch ticks. It echoes inside him, counts his heartbeats. He sinks, pulled by the undertow of his arousal. Though nonspecific and engineered by the drugs, Siwon gives his lust a face, a body, a name—and then he tries to deny it.

Denial makes him stronger. He’s always believed that. If he can want something, he can deny it. Maybe not easily, maybe not at once, but eventually he can defeat it. And that makes him strong and capable.

There’s a sound at the window. A rattle, and then something like a squealing exhalation as the sash is lifted. The metallic bounce of someone—a man—clambering from the fire escape and easing through the gap. A cold breeze steals in, eddies around the room. Siwon knows his skin tightens in response, but he doesn’t _feel_ it. Not truly. The sensation is masked, comes to him through layers. Only his fear is real and sudden.

The intruder slides the window shut. Silence hangs between them.

He doesn’t want to look, but he needs to know. The gun can’t help him. Nothing can help him. Siwon takes a breath and turns his head.

Zhou Mi stands at the foot of the bed, dressed in black. In the half light, his hair is the shade of polished mahogany. He’s smiling. He’s always smiling, no matter what the situation or circumstance. Siwon hates him for that. Hates him for being so poised and certain when everything around him is going to hell. Hates him because right now, he’s winning.

Perhaps it’s for the best that the drugs have made Siwon mute. He has too many secrets, too many of them not his to share, and if Zhou Mi chose to interrogate him and if he had a voice, Siwon knows he’d spill everything like ink dashed across paper.

But he knows Zhou Mi doesn’t want information. 

Zhou Mi comes to him, as soft and brutal as a dream. His hair falls into his eyes as he takes Siwon’s dangling foot and rearranges him on the bed, straightening him out. Zhou Mi smiles as he adjusts the pillow beneath Siwon’s head, and then he curls his fists into the open collar of Siwon’s shirt, pulls him up slightly, and leans down to kiss him.

He’s aware of the sensation of Zhou Mi’s lips over his, the kiss cold with the night air. Siwon wishes he could experience it rather than feel it. He knows from a previous encounter that Zhou Mi’s kisses are like promises, exquisite and passionate, shaped as if made only for him... even though Siwon knows they’re not.

That’s part of the appeal. Part of why he hungers so much for this man. Because none of this is real, and while it hurts, it’s also the most exciting, most abominable thing he’s ever done.

“You’re getting too close.” Zhou Mi speaks in Korean, his accent perfect but sharp, the words breathed against Siwon’s mouth. “Closer than is comfortable for either of us. This can’t end well.”

Siwon stares at him. He has a dozen replies locked in his head, but he can’t give voice to any of them.

“Surely you see how dangerous this is, this game we’re playing.” Zhou Mi draws back. Unbuttoning the rest of Siwon’s shirt, he spreads it open and gazes down at his body. “This obsession we have with one another... it’s not healthy.”

No kidding. Zhou Mi is almost the only thing Siwon thinks about these days, and while such single-minded intensity is a requirement of his job, it only serves to remind him of his loneliness.

“You keep demanding to know me, but you never give me what I want.” Zhou Mi’s hands are on Siwon’s belt now, unbuckling it. His fingers trace the thick ridge of Siwon’s erection beneath his trousers. Even though Siwon knows it’s just his imagination, the touch seems to scald him.

“If only,” Zhou Mi says, and it’s almost a sigh. He unbuttons Siwon’s trousers, unzips, and pulls them to mid-thigh. Underwear next, Zhou Mi hooking his thumbs over the waistband and dragging them down. He gives a soft moan of approval at the sight of Siwon’s cock, huge and hard and spilling over with glimmering wetness at the tip.

“Oh, Shi Yuan.” Zhou Mi leans down and licks him, a long, luxurious stripe from his drawn up, too-tight balls to the smooth crown of his cock. The taste seems to intoxicate Zhou Mi; his mouth goes slack and a shiver cuts up his spine, and he exhales on a shaking breath.

Siwon wonders if this will be his punishment: a blowjob from an undisputed master of the art while he’s helpless and unable to derive any pleasure from it. Except there will be pleasure. He can’t feel, but he can see, and Zhou Mi knows how much he likes to watch. Torment and delight together—how appropriate to his duty, and to İstanbul.

But a blowjob doesn’t seem to be on offer. Not when Zhou Mi reaches into his clothes and brings out a foil-wrapped packet. With quick efficiency, he rips open the foil and rolls the condom over Siwon’s cock, giving it a squeeze before he lets go. Then he strips out of his garments, does it neatly, precisely, and stands naked and aroused in the sodium-bleed of the streetlights.

“I’m going to use you,” Zhou Mi says. He climbs onto the bed, straddles Siwon’s waist. He licks his fingers, makes them spit-slick, then reaches behind and works into his hole, fucking himself. Gazing down at Siwon, Zhou Mi’s eyes glitter as if he’s the one drugged. “You can’t stop me,” he adds, voice soft. “I’m going to take what I want.”

It should disgust him, repel him, but Siwon feels only aching, desperate need. He tries to move, but this time he doesn’t reach for the gun. He wants to touch long thighs, a slender body, a hard cock. He wants to touch what he can see, but the drugs imprison him, keep him immobile. He can only watch as Zhou Mi impales himself, head going back, a rough, low noise forced from his throat as he eases on down, down, taking Siwon’s cock deep inside.

Siwon can’t even thrust up to meet him. He can’t do anything except watch and revel in the absolute crushing desire that batters at him. Hatred tinges the edge of his lust, but he doesn’t know if it’s Zhou Mi he hates or if it’s himself.

Zhou Mi rides him. Slow at first, squirming on Siwon’s dick to adjust to the size and position and the lack of response, and then, when he’s accustomed to it, Zhou Mi laughs, breathless and excited, and moves faster, lifting and lowering like an expert horseman, the muscles in his thighs bunching, gliding; the muscles in his stomach tightening as he leans back and balances, one hand grasped tight around Siwon’s leg.

Siwon imagines the rush of pleasure, feels a distant echo of it go through him. _If only_ , Zhou Mi had said, and the words spin around the room. If only, if only. He wants so much. He can’t have any of it. Despair tarnishes him, but he can’t look away.

Zhou Mi uses him, concentration intense, the flush of arousal covering his face, his throat, his chest. Sweat gleams from his skin. His mouth is open, breaths gasping from him. His hair is damp, flopping from its careful style. He fucks himself on Siwon’s cock, pleasure lighting him from within as he takes and takes. At last he wraps his free hand around his dick and jerks himself as his rhythm starts to lose focus, as everything in him seems to strain and lift.

“Tell me you love me,” Zhou Mi gasps.

Siwon is glad he can’t speak. He can’t blurt out the awful truth. He loves Zhou Mi. Has loved him in a twisted, useless fashion since the first time he laid eyes upon him. But it doesn’t matter. It won’t save either of them. 

He stays silent, holds Zhou Mi’s gaze, and watches him shake, watches him come apart, watches him shoot warm, sticky semen all over them.

Later, Zhou Mi leaves the way he arrived—out of the window, down the fire escape. Siwon listens as the clatter of the fire escape gives way to the solid sound of footsteps on the pavement. The noise fades, leaving behind only the ticking of the watch counting the seconds until dawn.

A cold draught slides through the gap in the open window. Siwon wishes he could shiver. There’s a sour taste in his mouth and the smell of winter in the air.

* * *

_Then_

Siwon glances at his watch. It’s a habit; he knows the time without looking, the city still ringing to the loudspeakered call to afternoon prayer. He checks the equipment one more time and settles in to wait.

The light across Sultanahmet is golden, late summer caught in the web of the city. A heat haze shimmers down on the street. Flowers droop in window boxes. Tourists in brightly-coloured clothes wander past the old men dressed in greys and browns who sit at metal tables on street corners and play backgammon and smoke. The smell of the city, exhaust fumes and antiquity and the slow breath of the Bosphorus, hangs in the air.

Up here it’s almost cool and there’s almost a breeze. Siwon has positioned himself in the upper storey of a building scheduled for renovation. The ground floor is boarded over with sheets of metal stencilled with the name of the builder. Above this, the facade is pitted and crumbled. The window panes have long been removed, as have the shutters. Inside are the ghosts of the elegance that used to exist—the fine mouldings of plasterwork, fragments of silk wallpaper.

Siwon found traces of more recent occupation. A tattered bedroll, floorboards scorched black and smoke patterns rippled across the ceiling, footprints through the dust. There’s no one here now. No one but him.

There’s activity through the windows of the building opposite. Once a grand Ottoman mansion, now it’s a boutique hotel catering mainly to tourists. It’s expensive, but not prohibitively so. This part of the Old City is quiet, discreet; the perfect place for pursuing an affair. Siwon moves behind the camera. He peers through the lens, adjusts the focus, and draws in his breath.

One floor down on the other side of the street, Zhou Mi is locked in an embrace with Hayati Erdem, Minister of the Interior. Siwon starts photographing them, documents every kiss, every touch. The shutter clicks, the sound smooth and restful. Siwon watches, his thoughts clamouring. He knew Zhou Mi had targeted a high-ranking government official, but he hadn’t expected it to be Erdem. There’d never been so much as a whisper of scandal around Erdem before, let alone any inkling that he might be susceptible to the kind of indiscretion Zhou Mi offers—but here he is, tearing at Zhou Mi’s shirt with animalistic eagerness and raising bruises on Zhou Mi’s pale skin. 

The images flick onwards. Siwon changes the angle of the camera to get a clearer shot. Zhou Mi is on his knees now, mouth open for Erdem’s cock. The minister has both hands in the glorious fiery spill of Zhou Mi’s hair as he fucks his face. It’s brutal and angry, and Siwon almost stops taking pictures, almost wants to go and save Zhou Mi, but there’s nothing there worth saving.

Nothing but beauty and yearning, and that’s easy to come by in this city.

More images. Siwon watches through the lens, distanced from events but irrevocably bound by the experience. He watches Erdem pull Zhou Mi off him, watches him drag Zhou Mi by the hair towards the bed. They fall across the quilt, ruck it up, devouring one another. Their passion looks genuine, but Siwon knows better. Zhou Mi loves no one, least of all himself. 

Siwon’s mission here was simple enough at first. No heroics, no grand gestures, no breaking and entering. Instead he was to be passive; he would react, not provoke. He was there to watch and gather information. After several months of forging an understanding with the İstanbul Police Department and reporting to both sides on the trafficking of illegal immigrants, he was given a specific target: Zhou Mi.

A wanted man in five different countries, if ever he is arrested and returned to China, Zhou Mi faces execution. A man cloaked with the formal threat of death is infinitely more dangerous than the usual mercenary spy, Siwon’s paymaster told him. Psychoanalysts suggest that Zhou Mi is a calculated risk-taker who might—just might—make an error if pushed hard enough.

“We don’t know who he’s working for,” Siwon was told. “Perhaps the Russians or the PKK. Maybe even the North Koreans. We don’t know what he wants. Watch him. Find out. Share what you know with the appropriate local authorities when and if it becomes necessary. Otherwise...”

“Otherwise, sir?”

His paymaster had chuckled, the sound dry and cold. “Just give him enough rope to hang himself.”

He’s watched Zhou Mi since the middle of February. Beautiful and brittle, vicious and tender, Zhou Mi is both everything Siwon hates and all that he desires. According to the encrypted dossier sent from his paymaster, and from what Siwon has witnessed for himself, Zhou Mi craves reassurance from his lovers. He always asks if they love him. Not that it matters what the answer is: his lovers often end up dead. Those are the fortunate ones. The others find themselves ruined politically, financially, socially, or emotionally—and sometimes all at once.

Siwon wonders what will become of Hayati Erdem, then dismisses the thought and zooms in a little closer to capture the look of ecstasy on Zhou Mi’s face as Erdem fucks him. Perhaps he should be more concerned with the minister’s fate, but Siwon finds it hard to care. His jealousy is like acid, churning his stomach and making bile rise in his throat. He hates all of Zhou Mi’s lovers but the first times are especially hard to witness, because he knows it’ll never be him there in that bed, tangled with Zhou Mi. 

Eight months he’s watched Zhou Mi, but still Siwon feels as if he barely knows him at all. He wants to know him. Watching isn’t enough. He wants to feel Zhou Mi, wants to taste him, wants to rut into him the way Hayati Erdem is fucking him. God, he wants to neglect his duty and take himself in hand right now; he wants to jerk off as he watches the Minister of the Interior thrust into Zhou Mi hard and fast and violent. It’s unprofessional, it’s shameful, but oh, how he wants it. How he longs for Zhou Mi.

He doesn’t do it. Siwon grits his teeth until his jaw aches. He stares through the camera lens so hard his eyes water. He takes picture after picture, records the climax and the aftermath. Then he pauses, still watching.

Erdem dresses, kisses Zhou Mi, and takes his leave with a fond farewell.

Alone in the room, Zhou Mi comes to the window. He looks out, his gaze distant as he combs his hand through the disorder of his hair. He seems unaware of his nudity, of the sweat and the drying streaks of semen and the bites and bruises flowering over his body. It’s as if he doesn’t care, as if none of what just transpired touched him in any way.

He lifts his gaze, looks directly at the empty window in which Siwon hides, and smiles, as bright as sunlight on water. 

Though every muscle in his body tightens with the urge to flee, Siwon forces himself to remain still. He stares down across the space separating them, watching that smile grow and deepen from idle amusement to absolute certainty. 

Zhou Mi knows he’s watching. It leaves him breathless.

* * *

_Now_

The phone rings itself into silence twice before the drugs wear off. The second time, Siwon is almost able to answer it, but the phone slips from his grasp and lands on the floor. He has no desire to join it on the cold linoleum, so he lies on his side and thinks of Zhou Mi.

When he can feel again, tie memory and sensation together, a surge of lust goes through him. He has Zhou Mi’s seed crusted all over him. He can feel where Zhou Mi gripped his leg. His shirt is open, his trousers and underwear still twisted around his thighs. This time when he gets hard, he knows he’ll be able to come. 

His fingers tingle as if with pins and needles. He makes a tight fist around his cock and jerks at it, hard and angry. He burrows his free hand beneath his shirt and slides a touch over the scar in the ball of his shoulder, a permanent reminder of a previous encounter with Zhou Mi. The blade had chipped bone; the wound aches in cold weather. It’s ached every day since the temperature began to drop in the middle of November.

Lust coils low down in his belly. Siwon grunts, closes his eyes and turns his face into the pillow. He remembers how Zhou Mi looked on top of him, remembers the sounds of Zhou Mi’s pleasure. He remembers how good it felt to be used like that.

He comes, shaking and gasping. There’s a lot of semen, thick and hot against his chilled skin. His orgasm exhausts him. Afterwards, he feels dirty. 

Siwon keeps his eyes shut. He’s screwed up. This isn’t him; the city is seeping into him, blurring his identity, eroding his understanding of duty and loyalty. 

It’s a relief when his phone rings a third time.

The call is from an acquaintance in the police. What he says is enough to galvanise Siwon into muted action—washing himself clean, dressing in fresh clothes, winding a scarf around his neck as he heads out onto the street. He doesn’t keep a car in Tarlabaşı; it would be stolen, trashed, or set alight within twenty-four hours. Instead he catches a taxi out to Yıldız Park.

Kadir meets him at the flapping line of police tape. A heavy fug of smoke clings to the Inspector’s clothes and hair and moustache. He gestures for Siwon to follow him away from the elegant swathe of the park and towards the shore. The Bosphorus is rough today, the water oily and rich with the stink of diesel fumes. A little to the north-east, the suspension bridge cuts across the waterway, a thick stripe on the landscape joining Europe to Asia.

A body covered by tarpaulin is laid out on the concrete. Two blank-faced constables stand guard, but move back when Kadir and Siwon approach. The Inspector crouches and lifts a corner of the tarp, looking up to gauge Siwon’s expression as the body is revealed.

It’s Hayati Erdem. 

“In the water less than a day,” Kadir says. “He hasn’t been mashed up by boat props, God be praised. A couple of fishermen netted him early this morning, panicked and cut him loose, then changed their minds and called us and trawled for the body again. They found it. A fortunate event; the current can be fast here, and with this wind...”

Siwon nods without really listening, all his attention on the thin knotted cord around Erdem’s neck. The minister’s flesh has bloated around it, embedding it even deeper. He swallows, feels his own throat tighten, then gestures at the corpse. “A very Ottoman method of execution.”

Not just Ottoman. Chinese, too. The two empires at either end of the Silk Road had much in common in terms of cruelty as well as beauty.

“Hmm.” Kadir rubs at his chin, stubble rasping against his palm. A moment later, his phone starts ringing. He glances at the display then cuts the call without taking it. “Erdem wasn’t an Ottoman. He’s not even İstanbullu. Perhaps the strangulation was significant; perhaps not. It’s cleaner and quieter than a gun or a knife, but potentially more difficult for the killer. He or she would need to be strong and determined.”

“Sometimes it suggests a degree of intimacy with the victim,” Siwon says, thinking of the photographs he’d taken of Erdem and Zhou Mi together in the hotel room. “Be sure to ask your pathologist about the angle of the attack.”

There must be something in his voice or demeanour that gives away his disquiet, because Kadir looks at him and raises an eyebrow. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me? Anything we should know about?”

Siwon begins to speak, then thinks better of it. “I— No. It’s nothing.”

“It’s something.” Kadir covers the body and gets to his feet. He takes out a packet of Birinci cigarettes and offers one to Siwon from force of habit before lighting one up for himself. His hand is shaking and his mouth is clamped tight around the cigarette. He exhales a stream of smoke that’s snatched away by the brisk wind. “It’s a mess, that’s what it is. A huge fucking mess.”

Siwon blinks, eyes watering in the whipping cold. He’s never heard Kadir swear before. He stays quiet and waits. Ignoring the corpse at their feet, they look out across the Bosphorus at the shores of Üsküdar.

“There’s a rumour that Erdem had a lover,” Kadir says after a while. “A male lover. Foreign. Asian. Possibly Chinese. Tall, with red hair and expensive tastes.”

Siwon maintains his silence.

“They were seen together in Ankara in late October. Erdem was speaking at Bilkent University. Later he was observed in discussion with the foreigner. It appeared that they knew one another well. They left together, but according to Erdem’s protection detail, they had no further contact once outside the university. Though now I wonder, of course.” Kadir inspects the filter of his cigarette. “We all wonder.”

In late October, Siwon was recuperating after Zhou Mi had stabbed him in the shoulder. He should have known it was a distraction, but he’d thought differently back then. He’d been even more of a fool than he’d realised. Things have slipped far from his control, and he feels lost. He keeps his gaze on the opposite shore. On Asia.

“I need not stress the importance of this.” Kadir finishes his cigarette and tosses it to the ground, crushing the smouldering butt beneath his shoe. “The situation is... chaotic, shall we say. Ankara wants results. Fast. So if you know something, anything at all...”

Siwon nods. “I’ll let you know.”

“Give me a name.” Kadir faces him, temper barely held in check. “You were watching him all this time. You must be aware—”

It’s not breaking protocol, so Siwon says, “Zhou Mi. His name is Zhou Mi.” He spells it out, just to be sure that Kadir gets it right.

“Zhou Mi.” Kadir taps his pen against the notepad and snorts. “Talk to your people. We can’t sit on this. It’ll be leaked to the media soon enough and then we won’t know a moment’s peace. I’ll have to lean on you then, whether you like it or not.”

Siwon nods again. “I’ll take care of it.”

Kadir gives him a laconic look. “We’d appreciate that.”

They part. Siwon goes south, heading for Beşıktaş. Every now and then he turns to check the street for a cruising taxi. It’s a long, steep walk back into the city, and he still feels tired. But it’s worse than mere weariness; he feels sick. His attraction to Zhou Mi is a symptom of a greater illness. Better for him to cut it out and cauterise the wound before it gets much worse.

* * *

_Then_

Summer has infected autumn. Usually there’s a divide, a day when one wakes up and realises that the seasons have changed, but not this year. It’s still a little too warm at night to make sleep comfortable. Siwon’s apartment has no air conditioning, and if he opened the window, it would be seen as an invitation.

At home he has nothing to do but sit and sweat and think of Zhou Mi. It’s better, healthier, for him to be on the streets. Siwon walks a lot, passing his evenings in a succession of different neighbourhoods on both sides of the Golden Horn. Occasionally he allows himself to be picked up in bars in Sultanahmet or along İstiklal Caddesi. The sex is pedestrian. He finds he can only come if he imagines he’s fucking Zhou Mi. There’s nothing healthy about that, but perhaps one day his fantasies will fade. Until then, he’s a ghost in the city, inhabiting the same dead space as the remnants of an empire.

He has a favourite bar near the Galata Tower. The heavy, round wrought iron tables crush up against the nineteenth century walls of a former European-style mansion. Above them, fancy metalwork twists to hold faceless signs. Once upon a time, back when it was Pera rather than Beyoğlu, this part of the city was smart and elegant. But identities change as easily as names, and not every change is for the best.

Still, the beer is a decent price and there’s always a crowd, and while Siwon doesn’t actively seek out company here, he can pretend that he’s not lonely.

Tonight the bar is full. Siwon sits with his back to the wall, glances at his watch, and listens to the polyglot of tongues around him. He doesn’t recognise every language, but there’s something reassuring about that. A reminder that he doesn’t have to know everything. Usually he takes that as a sign of failure, but not now. Not after this last year, these last few months. Not after Zhou Mi.

At a nearby table, a group of European women eye him speculatively. They’re young, giggly with alcohol, dressed in short, tight, sequinned clothes. One of them, a blonde, gets to her feet and, egged on by unsubtle stage whispers from her friends, comes over to him. She smiles, addresses him in accented English. Siwon pretends not to understand her. Her smile falters, and she speaks again in German. Siwon smiles back at her, keeping his expression polite but bewildered.

The girl looks back at her friends. They make gestures urging her on. She shrugs, gives him an _oh well, never mind_ smile, then moves on to another table and a more appreciative audience of young Turkish men.

Siwon chuckles and reaches for his beer. He almost knocks it over when he realises he’s no longer alone.

Zhou Mi is sitting on the other side of the table. He has a small glass of something bright yellow and viscous and cold, judging by the condensation cutting through the frost on the glass. He smiles. “Good evening.”

He speaks Mandarin. Siwon stares at him, nonplussed for a moment. This isn’t supposed to happen. He’s meant to observe, not interact. He’s not wearing his gun. They’re in an open space, in public. This—all of this—is wrong. But at the same time, it’s an opening, and one he has to take.

“Evening.” Siwon replies in the same language, wondering how Zhou Mi is going to play this. “A warm night. Too warm to stay indoors.”

Zhou Mi smiles, traces a fingertip down the side of his glass. “So I’ve been told.”

The possibilities of that statement rattle around Siwon’s head. Is Zhou Mi referring to Hayati Erdem or to someone else? Is he making small talk? Is he flirting? Siwon’s mind whirls. Too many options. Better to say nothing. He gives a tight smile and takes a swig of beer.

“Have you been in İstanbul long?” Zhou Mi asks. His expression is smooth; he displays only mild interest, the way one would when making polite chitchat in a crowded bar.

“Almost eighteen months.” Siwon has amassed a multitude of cover stories for moments like this, but now he has to use one, he’s telling the truth.

Zhou Mi nods. “Are you a businessman?”

“Yes. Import. Mainly electronics. High-end stuff.” The lies drop awkwardly from his lips. Siwon hates not being in control of the situation. He hates that Zhou Mi has forced this role upon him and that they both have to play it. Summoning his wits, he asks, “And you—what are you doing in İstanbul?”

“I have a fondness for Byzantine art.” Zhou Mi’s eyes gleam. “The mosaics and frescos in the Kariye, for example. Exquisite.”

Unease strokes cold fingers down Siwon’s spine. Is that what Zhou Mi is after—priceless, irreplaceable works of art? It takes time to plan the theft of mosaics or frescos. Such things cannot be cut from a frame and concealed within a cardboard tube; expert knowledge and painstaking patience are required. But if art is his target, what does Zhou Mi want with the Minister of the Interior?

They look at one another in silence. Zhou Mi sips at his yellow drink. It’s thick, leaving a slow-retreating wave upon the inside of the glass. Siwon remembers his beer. He gulps at it, drains it. Places the empty bottle in the centre of the ironwork table as if staking a claim.

“You’re too handsome to be a spy,” Zhou Mi says softly.

Siwon forces himself not to react. “What?”

“Good spies are comfortable people.” Zhou Mi toys with his glass. “Comfortable-looking and comfortable in their actions. You are neither.”

Laughter bubbles up. Siwon lets it out, a harsh, panicked sound, then cuts it off. He shakes his head. He’s not going to respond to this, except he does. Stupidly, immediately, the words snapping out of him: “That means you’re a terrible spy, too.”

Zhou Mi smiles. “I believe that was a compliment.”

“Only if you were complimenting me first.”

They gaze at each other, one amused, the other wary, and then Zhou Mi tilts his head, red hair tumbling into his eyes, and says, “You’ve been watching me. Do you like what you see?”

“Yes.” The answer blurts out before Siwon can stop it. Not that it matters. The question was surely rhetorical in any case.

Zhou Mi stares at him, eyes bright, all pretence banished. “I wonder if you know as much about me as I know about you, Choi Siwon.” This time he speaks in Korean. 

It shouldn’t be a shock that Zhou Mi knows his name, but Siwon flinches anyway. He gathers his bravado. “I know a lot.”

“As do I.” With a nudge of his finger, Zhou Mi moves his glass towards the middle of the table as if they’re playing chess, a bishop intent on checkmating a king. 

They lean in close together, and Siwon catches the scent from the glass. The bitterness of lemons and the sweetness of sugar-syrup. He looks into Zhou Mi’s eyes and sees a spark of excitement roused by the alcohol and maybe by their conversation. He looks at Zhou Mi and hates him. Wants him.

“What do you know?” Siwon asks, lured by the hook rather than the bait.

Zhou Mi smiles, crystalline and brilliant. “Let’s start with the basics. You live in Tarlabaşı in a building owned by Greeks. You drink too much coffee—the milky designer variety favoured by the Europeans rather than Turkish coffee. You find it hard to sleep at night. You go to the hamam three times a week—Çemberlitaş for preference, although other, less salubrious places also gain your patronage.” 

He pauses, taps a finger against his glass, then continues: “You’re very good at watching, but you’re unaware that the viewed can also be the viewer. For a man paid to observe, Agent Choi, you’re remarkably unobservant when it comes to being watched yourself.”

Siwon swallows. It’s gathering in him, a thickening anger at his own stupidity. “You knew I was watching, that day in Sultanahmet. You came to the window and looked up at me.”

“Yes.”

“Other times, too.” Recollection is swift now, presenting him with incidents that he’d perceived one way and which he now remembers in a different light. “The meeting you had at Patisserie Markiz. The conversation with the fishermen beneath the Galata Bridge. When you talked to the Bulgarian street kids outside Tünel. You knew I was watching. Every time, you looked in my direction even though I was hidden. Though I thought I was hidden.”

“I told you,” Zhou Mi says, still smiling, “you’re handsome. I can always find a handsome man, no matter how well he hides.”

Siwon exhales. Turns his head. He wants another beer. No, he wants rakı, strong and sharp, wants enough of it that he’ll be able to forget the mistakes he’s made.

“Call it the madness of the changing seasons, but I find myself intrigued,” Zhou Mi says into the silence between them. “I’ve never had such attention before. Not pure, passive attention like yours. It’s—flattering. Almost worshipful. I like it. I like _you_ , Choi Siwon. You’re handsome and you watch me and I want you.”

Siwon glares at him, lust beating back his anger. “I want you, too, but not in the same way.”

Zhou Mi laughs, a husky, musical sound. “Oh, tell yourself that if it makes it easier. I know differently. I know, Agent Choi, that you pick up men but you never ask their names. And yet I know that when you climax, you always say a name. _My_ name.”

Despite the velvet warmth of the night, Siwon goes cold, his skin crawling with shame and desire.

Leaning forward again, Zhou Mi says, “You’re out of your depth.”

Siwon is not going to acknowledge the truth of that statement. “So are you.”

Zhou Mi laughs.

The anger snaps. Siwon grabs him, catches a handful of Zhou Mi’s shirt and drags him closer. The table wobbles, legs scraping across the pavement. The empty beer bottle falls, knocks over the little glass. The sickly-sweet lemon liquor dribbles over the wrought iron.

They stare at each other. Now he’s got him, Siwon isn’t sure what to do. He tightens his grip, twisting his fist into the silk of Zhou Mi’s shirt. The other patrons of the bar watch them, and Siwon revels in their audience.

Then Zhou Mi slaps him, hard and swift. The crack of the impact sounds worse than it is. Siwon lets go, stunned for a moment. It would be more dramatic if Zhou Mi got up and stormed away now; it would be even more dramatic if Siwon’s lip had split, but Zhou Mi just sits there, and when Siwon flicks out his tongue and tests his lip, there’s no obvious damage. Just a smarting sensation and the echo of the slap through his head, and the startled murmurs of conversation around him.

Zhou Mi’s breathing is erratic. His eyes are dark, his lips parted. “You don’t touch me unless I want you to touch me,” he says, voice low and hungry.

Siwon understands this part of the game. He’s been waiting for it all night, all year. He curls his hands around the edge of the table. “Do you want me to touch you?”

Briefly, Zhou Mi closes his eyes. He looks at Siwon. Shivers. “Yes.”

Throwing a handful of notes onto the table, Siwon pushes back his chair and gets up. Zhou Mi rises with him. People are staring at them, but Siwon only has eyes for Zhou Mi. He’s never wanted anyone so much. It must be obvious, but he doesn’t care.

They leave the bar, hurry through the narrow streets. Every time Siwon reaches for him, tries to draw him into the shadows, Zhou Mi pulls away. This could be a trap, Siwon reminds himself. He should be more cautious. 

They’re heading downhill. Across the water, he catches glimpses of the Old City and the darkness of Gülhane Park. 

“Here,” Zhou Mi says, coming to a halt beside a ten-year-old black Mercedes with German plates. “My car.” The security lights flash as he speaks; the doors unlock. He opens the back door and pauses, his expression challenging beneath the fall of his hair.

“Fuck.” Siwon glances around, then looks into the car. There’s no one in there. There’s no one on the street. This is exactly what it seems to be, he’s sure of it. Just him and Zhou Mi and the offer of sex. 

He takes what’s offered, shoves Zhou Mi into the car and sends him sprawling across the back seat. He clambers in after him, heart pounding, head thumping, breathless with urgency and risk. The doors click shut. Zhou Mi turns facedown, tears at his clothing then lifts up to present himself naked from the waist down, naked and ready and wanting. 

“Get in me,” Zhou Mi demands. “Fuck me.”

Siwon loses any last semblance of control. He takes Zhou Mi without preparation, without even a condom. It’s madness. Absolute madness. But he needs this, he needs Zhou Mi. Needs to make him beg, to make him acknowledge that Siwon is the one in charge here.

Even though he isn’t.

It’s fast and angry, the cramped quarters of the car seeming to heighten awareness and sensation. Their breaths fog up the windows. The smell of sex is dizzying. At first they fight, then they move together in the pursuit of oblivion. Zhou Mi comes silently, quivering; Siwon reaches orgasm with a desperate, angry shout: _Mi. Zhou Mi_.

Afterwards they lie silent, and then Zhou Mi says, “Tell me you love me.”

Siwon closes his eyes and buries his face against Zhou Mi’s back, still silent as his mouth works over the silk. He wants to answer, but at the same time he’s appalled that he’s being sucked into the black morass of Zhou Mi’s emotional need. Perhaps they can reach a compromise. Siwon lifts his head but doesn’t move the rest of his body. “First tell me what you wanted from Hayati Erdem.”

Zhou Mi gives a soft laugh and says in Mandarin, “You saw what I wanted.”

“You can get cock anywhere in this city.”

“I wanted Hayati’s cock. He’s a good lover. Considerate.”

The implication stings. “I would—”

“Don’t damn yourself further, Shi Yuan.” Zhou Mi sounds amused. “Let me up. If you want to be considerate with me, there are better places than the back seat of my car.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.” Reason reasserts itself. Siwon pulls out of Zhou Mi. Keeping him pinned beneath his weight, Siwon tucks himself away and zips his trousers before he releases his grip. “Answer the question.”

“Ask me a sensible question and I’ll consider it.” Zhou Mi turns onto his back and eases half upright, leaning against the far door of the car. He’s beautiful, eyes shining, smiling and satisfied—and that was after a quick fuck. Confronted with the sight, Siwon can’t help but imagine how he’d look if they’d gone to bed and made love properly.

Aware that his attention is wandering towards places forbidden and unhealthy, Siwon grits his teeth and says, “I want to know about you. I want to know about you and Hayati Erdem. Tell me—”

Zhou Mi moves, swift and certain. There’s the glitter of a blade. Siwon reacts, but it’s too late and there’s no space in the back seat, no room to manoeuvre, and fuck, he’s an idiot, and _God_ , it hurts, it hurts like cold fire when the knife bites into him, stabs through clothing and flesh and buries its point in bone.

“Stubborn,” Zhou Mi whispers in his ear, one hand wrapped around the hilt of the knife. “So stubborn. I should kill you, but you’re handsome and you amuse me. I like playing with you, Agent Choi. I like it a little too much.” He pauses for a moment, his breath warm against Siwon’s cheek. “I know I’m going to regret this.”

The shock of the attack is wearing off. The pain is almost bearable. Siwon exhales. “People like us shouldn’t have regrets.”

A gentle smile. “Oh, Shi Yuan, you _are_ innocent. People like us have nothing else but regrets.”

Zhou Mi kisses him, then. Kisses him at the same time as wrenching out the knife, and fresh agony flares, and Siwon cries out in Zhou Mi’s mouth, and it hurts, everything hurts, but Zhou Mi’s mouth tastes sweet.

* * *

_Now_

Zhou Mi was right, Siwon thinks. This can’t end well.

He stands in the lee of the wind, sheltered by the shabby boarded walls of the yalı, a once-elegant wooden mansion on the waterfront north of Kandilli. Siwon has known about this place for months, but this is the first time he’s been here. For years the summer home of a minor Ottoman noble, it fell into disrepair after the formation of the Republic and changed hands several times until it was bought by a Swiss businessman. Though he has a number of bank accounts around the world, the Swiss doesn’t exist. 

Zhou Mi lives in this house, this ramshackle piece of a lost age. And now time has run out once more, and Siwon can’t think of a setting more appropriate for what he’s come to do.

It’s almost as easy for him to break into the mansion as it was for Zhou Mi to break into his apartment in Tarlabaşı. Inside everything is still. Siwon hesitates for a moment in the middle of a pretty little salon filled with delicate French furniture. The air is tinted with the fragrance of lavender. Outside, the Bosphorus flows thick and smudgy. Sun-faded velvet drapes almost obscure the view.

He moves on through the house. Elsewhere, the fittings are more modern even if the decor remains _fin de siècle_. Siwon shudders. There are ghosts everywhere. He catches himself. Not ghosts; he doesn’t believe in ghosts. Memories, then. Memories so strong he can taste them at the back of his throat. 

The scent of coffee spirals through half open doorways. Siwon follows it, placing his feet carefully as he treads. Somewhere, a clock ticks; a heavy sound. Perhaps a grandfather clock. Siwon listens to it, sonorous and soothing. It pulls at him, and with an effort he shakes himself free.

He draws his gun. Paces around the edge of an antique Persian carpet and approaches a door. The scent of coffee grows stronger. His heart races. Beyond the door, he can hear movement—the rustle of pages being turned, the clink of china, a sigh.

Siwon pushes open the door. Nothing dramatic. Nothing loud. Just a gentle push. The door swings inwards, the hinges whining. Siwon stands side-on and grips his gun.

Zhou Mi is curled up on a chaise longue, a newspaper open across his lap. He holds a small coffee cup in one hand. He’s wearing shades of white—white jeans, a white shirt unbuttoned to show a white t-shirt. A silver watch is strapped around his wrist. His feet are bare. His hair is wet, a dark, dark red. He looks surprised, startled, his face going pale. “Shi Yuan.”

“Hello, Zhou Mi.” Siwon speaks Mandarin. He edges into the room, glancing around but keeping his focus on his target. He doesn’t relax his aim. “It won’t be in there yet,” he nods at the newspaper, “but Hayati Erdem is dead. Did you kill him?”

Zhou Mi says nothing.

Siwon’s thoughts run together, tangle with one another. If Zhou Mi had killed Erdem, he didn’t do it here. The current is wrong. The body wouldn’t have been found on the European side of the Bosphorus. But then, Zhou Mi would know that. He’d have been careful when disposing of the corpse. Unless he wanted Erdem to be found, of course. In which case, why toss the body into the water? Why not dump it elsewhere?

Too many questions. Siwon wants answers. Now. He takes several quick steps across the room and points the gun at Zhou Mi, then thumbs off the safety. “Tell me!”

Zhou Mi looks up, not a trace of fear or remorse in his eyes. “It doesn’t work like that. You can’t come in here and put a gun to my head and expect me to tell you everything. This isn’t one of those stories where everything resolves neatly just before the hero walks off into the sunset. It’s not like that at all. It never is, in reality.”

Thrown off-balance by Zhou Mi’s passive demeanour, Siwon hesitates. He’d expected trickery or a fight, not this resigned acceptance. Uncertain of how to read the situation, he lowers the gun. His heart is in his mouth. “It’s just... I need to know. I have so many questions.”

A smile touched with sadness curves Zhou Mi’s lips. “There are always more questions than there are answers.”

Siwon takes a half step back. “Will you tell me nothing?”

Silence draws out between them. The clock ticks.

“Zhou Mi,” Siwon says, and it’s almost a plea. “Zhou Mi!”

“You came here with a purpose.” Zhou Mi sets down his coffee cup, folds the newspaper onto the table, and then arranges himself on the couch, making himself comfortable. “See it done or leave. The decision is yours.”

“In this instance, I don’t have the luxury of choice.”

“No,” Zhou Mi says softly. “I suppose you don’t.” He lifts his chin, angles his head just so. He looks beautiful. Heartbreaking. Wide-eyed and motionless, he lets time slip away for a moment longer before he says, “Tell me you love me.”

Siwon wants to weep. “You know I do.”

That brings a glimmer of amusement. “Then I will haunt you forever.”

“I know.”

Zhou Mi smiles, brilliant and beautiful. “Don’t regret me.”

Siwon raises the gun again. Takes aim. “I don’t have regrets.”

*

A gunshot rings out.

*

One man leaves the house. He pauses outside the yalı in the biting teeth of the wind. It brings with it the promise of rain. He considers the rolling oiled-grey path of the Bosphorus, then glances at his watch. If he walks fast enough, he can make the three o’clock ferry back to the city.


End file.
